


To Live

by Shadowdust9799



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artistic Liberties, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Descent into Madness, Disability, Dubious Science, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Identity, POV Antagonist, Redemption, Roleswap, Suicide Attempt, dubious medical knowledge, loss of magic, no beta we die like men, no outline either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-21 01:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdust9799/pseuds/Shadowdust9799
Summary: Something is very wrong with the Wizarding World.A new Dark Lord, The Chosen One, rules over Britain with an iron fist, childhood uninterrupted by He Who Must Not Be Named.Instead, in a small, stifling orphanage, a twelve-year old Tom Riddle hates quietly, and bides his time to escape to greater things, destined for more.





	1. Chapter 1

“Tom!” Madame Garcia barked, striding toward him and grabbing him. Bug-eyed children gaped at the display, turning fearfully back to their dinner when Tom snarled at them. Madame Garcia turned and dragged Tom into a decrepit hallway, well away from the main hall.  
“Yes?”  
“What did you do to Johnny?” Madame Garcia snarled, grabbing him by the shoulders.  
“I haven’t done anything. You can even ask him,” Tom retorted, clawing at her hands. “Let go of me!”  
“Something’s off with him, I know it. After you’ve been out with him - you must have done something, you devil’s child.”  
There was a boom, and the building rattled in its foundations. A high-pitched scream rang through the building, quickly cut off. Madame Garcia tightened her grip.  
“What have you done?!”  
“I haven’t done anything!” Tom felt the first stirrings of fear, before ruthlessly quashing them.  
“Come with me. You’ll answer for what you’ve done,” Madame Garcia hissed, grabbing Tom’s arm and dragging him toward the scream.  
They neared the cafeteria, and Tom’s apprehension grew. Madame Garcia’s grip on his arm was white with fear. Bright flashes of color lit their faces. A crescendo of fear, screams and sobs, permeated the air. Madame Garcia, in worry, let go of Tom and ran toward the chaos.  
Tom was struck with disbelief. Something was terribly wrong before him, which had happened with terrifying suddenness. He could hear his heart pound in his ears, a trapped bird. His legs refused to move. What was in the cafeteria in front of him would destroy him. He had plans to leave the orphanage and build an empire for himself. He was special - he had a destiny, a purpose. Those things seemed very small now.  
With a start, he realized he was afraid.  
The events in the cafeteria were not wrought by mortal men; they were the same brand of special as Tom. Tom, perhaps, knew that, from the unnatural laughter and bright flashes emanating from the cafeteria. He started forwards anyway, unable to accept his own fear.  
The cafeteria was painted bright with violence, in contrast to its past dreariness. Tom noticed absently one of the walls of the orphanage was blown in, rubble coating the ground.  
Various bodies were strewn across the floor, several still alive. The whirlwind of noise Tom had heard outside was ceaseless, never ending. Tom felt a sudden, hypocritical sorrow at the useless waste of life and pointless suffering.  
Madame Garcia had run to one of the suffering children and knelt at their side. A crowd of cloaked figures, still inflicting pain on the hapless orphans, pointed one of their many hands toward Madame Garcia and shouted " _Avada Kedavra_!"  
Time froze as Tom watched the bolt of green light travel towards Madame Garcia. A slow sense of horror had overtaken him as he watched the green light. He opened mouth to shout, or warn, or do anything, but he was helpless. Madame Garcia fell to the ground, dead.  
The cloaked figures turned their collective eyes toward Tom. Tom, choking back a sob, fell back. He tripped and fell back.  
Tom, possibly above all else, feared death. It would strike him down from his superiority, render him useless, ordinary; the same as everyone else.  
In desperation he yelled out, collapsing part of the ceiling. With a giant crash, a chunk of cement separated from the roof and crashed into the mass of figures. Like water, the figures scattered around the rubble. A skittering chunk of debris flew out and hit Tom on the knee. Tom focused his magic again and one of the figures slumped to the ground.  
The figures stopped and advanced on Tom gleefully. "Mudblood! Mudblood!"  
Tom shakily tried to get to his feet but collapsed on himself. "Get away from me!" He yelled. "Leave me alone!"  
"Alright, then," one of the figures sneered. "We'll just bugger off then. If he says so."  
His group screeched with laughter, circling like vultures.  
Tom imagined the bolt of green light hitting him, his life being snuffed out easily. Two words, and he would be erased. A wet patch spread across his jeans as he imagined it. He had wet himself in fear. Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.  
"Please! I can help you - I can be of use to you. I-I'm special, see, I can do - things! I don't want to die. I'll do anything."  
The figures cackled again, in eerie sync. "Special, he says!"  
"Aw, look at the baby,"  
"Don't worry, dearie, we've got a much better thing planned. _Discoperus_!"  
A strange detachment came over Tom. The figures chanted, sticks in their hands raised in unison, and something within him began to _pull_.  
Something inside him, like one of his intestines, was plucking itself free of the connections it had. It writhed, and slowly, painfully, made its way up his body. It pushed through his esophagus like a cork stuck in a bottle, in a long, thin, line. Tom, somehow, understood what it was. It was his magic, being pulled out of him in long strings.  
Even laying there, stunned, with dark figures standing over him and covered in tears and piss, Tom had one thing that separated him from the unassuming, miserable masses; his magic.  
And now they would take even that away.  
His lungs seized, trying unconsciously to push his magic out. His throat and nose hurt from the pressure. There was a terrible emptiness in his stomach, like hunger; something was gone that could never be replaced. In the air in front of him, Tom could almost see his magic being pulled and dissipating into the air. Each moment, he dreaded how much magic he was losing. How much weaker was he growing by the second?  
Death was not the only thing that could bring Tom Riddle to the level of the masses. The idea that someone, anyone could take his specialness from him, pluck it like a fly from the air, was ludicrous. Soon he would be no better than the talentless, the worthless, the unwanted; what some people would call muggles. Nothing seperated him from the deficient Johnny and the rest of the faceless mass.  
Tom Riddle sobbed and screamed, brought to his lowest point. A chorus of agreement answered him, the suffering of his fellow orphans echoing together. Throughout the city, throughout all of Britain, there was a ghastly wail from all the worthless masses who would not live through the night, under the reign of The Chosen One.  
\---  
Miles away, in a polished, well-lit ministry office, Harry Potter congratulated himself for a job well done. He dismissed his latest puppet and took a swig from his mug, pleased with himself.  
He was doing good for the world.


	2. Chapter 2

The next soul who happened upon the orphanage after the cloaked figures had left was one Peter Pettigrew. He was a small, mousy haired boy. Being a half-blood, his muggle father had been killed by the angels, and his mother had died shortly after of dragonpox. Peter had slipped through the system of an overworked ministry, and ended up on the streets.

Peter held a stolen wand in his grubby back pocket, stolen with great pains. However, Peter was too softhearted, uneducated, and untalented to do much with it. On his back he carried a dirty drawstring bag, dangerously empty.

Seeing the broken-in door to the orphanage, Peter grimaced sympathetically. _Good for me, though,_ he thought. The ministry had not happened on this incident yet, or was still on its way. It gave Peter enough time to search it through for valuables.

Peter paled upon seeing the bodies on the floor, but quickly passed them over in favor of the food on the tables. He quickly rushed over, stuffing his mouth. He spent several minutes rapidly chewing, but eventually regretfully stopped, shoving of much as it as he could into his bag.

Next, turned to the felled angel in hopes of finding other valuables. He grimaced and reluctantly knelt to search for the angel’s wand. He found it eventually, and shoved it into his pocket, grinning. He continued, in a much better mood, when he began to hear raspy wheezing. He froze, and, despite his better judgement, crept forward.

One of the bodies he had mistaken for dead started moving. On the ground was a dark-haired boy, one hand in front of him, almost reaching out, the other on his face. Peter walked over and gingerly rolled him over with his foot, hissing in sympathy. The boy’s face was covered in blood.

Peter was struck with a certain kind of empathy. He was working on being braver, wasn’t he? Dreaming of being a kind of heroic vigilante? He knew a healing spell, anyhow - it had come in handy several times. He could practice, too - yes, Peter would save a life today.

“Episkey!” Peter said, pointing his wand at the boy.

Bright light burst from his wand and hit the unresponsive boy. Nothing happened. Blood continued to pump from his nose at an astonishing rate.

“Episkey!” Peter repeated, clearing his throat.

Still nothing happened. Peter frowned, shoving his wand back into his pocket. Maybe not much was wrong with the boy after all. He looked like a fright, though, his face and hands covered in blood -

Wait. Peter had a grand idea.

\---

“Oh, you poor boy!” the elderly woman - Mrs. Brown - exclaimed, fussing over an unresponsive Tom.

“Oh, it was h-horrible!” Peter cried, faking a sob and rubbing at his eyes. “He hit that rock and he just went down, you know, and I was so scared - he’s my brother, after all, and no one would help us, except you, of course, Mrs. Brown - I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Brown soothed. “I couldn’t just leave you there, could I? Crying on that street corner, your brother draped over you - what was his name again?”

“Er. George.”

“Terrible.” Mrs. Brown said disapprovingly, looking at Tom’s slack face. “What people are willing to turn a blind eye to as long as it doesn’t affect them. Have another scone, dear.”

“Oh, I could never!” exclaimed Peter, already reaching for another one. “You’ve done so much for me-I mean, us, already.”

“Nonsense! This world needs a little more kindness in it. I tried my best to heal him, but my spells are a little rusty after all these years. We should take George to St. Mungo’s tomorrow, hmm?”

Peter suddenly sat up straight, alarm bells ringing in his head. He burst into tears, covering his face with head with hands. “You can’t! That’s the thing, we don’t have any money, you know, street rats, we could never afford it.”

“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Brown insisted, though she looked worried herself.

Peter had a sudden, foolish urge to try and save her. Her and ‘George’ and all the muggles unknowingly in danger from the hidden specter of The Chosen One. Without thinking he blurted, “But Mungo’s is where people go to die! My-our mom, she got real sick, she went to the hospital and never came out. And, you know, the war - all the doctors are no good, or off doing something else, you know?”

“Your brother needs to go to Mungo’s in order to get better,” Mrs. Brown said gently. “I promise he won’t die if we take him to there; he’ll just get better.”

They both looked to where Tom was laying, feet elevated and smothered in three blankets. His eyes darted from side to side, anxious and confused, and his breathing was shallow and quick. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Mrs. Brown rushed over to comfort him.

Peter would have to leave, then. It was a shame - he’d like to stay for at least a while. But he couldn’t risk it. It was foolish to try and prevent the inevitable, anyway. Mrs. Brown surely must know about The Chosen One, being a witch. _She’s asking for death,_ thought Peter. _Living as a muggle._

\---

Peter planned to set out at night. He’d steal some things, and Mrs. Brown wouldn’t notice his disappearance until a while later. He’d leave “George” behind, of course - he couldn’t deal with a dead weight, with whatever was wrong with him.

Peter crept to the kitchen. He took several pieces of bread, but hesitated to take more. He shoved it into his bag. Peter checked to see if he had everything and cursed softly. He’d left behind the wand he stole from the angel.

Cursing, Peter turned and headed back to the room he shared with Tom. He spotted the wand, dropped on the floor, and headed toward it, stopping briefly to look at Tom on the way. Tom was still awake, eyes wide, with more clarity to them than before. Peter had picked up the wand and shoved it into his bag when Tom reached a sudden understanding. His eyes flicked to the window, open in the summer heat, then the sheets covering him.

Struck with a sudden motivation, Tom lunged at the open window. His efforts were ultimately unsuccessful, but he began to struggle. His elbow hit the wall with a sharp _bang._

“Stop! Stop, please!”

Oblivious to Peter’s cries, Tom continued to struggle, and fell to the floor with a muffled crash. He clawed determinedly to the window and tried to pull himself up to the windowsill.

“Peter? George?”

Tom hurled himself out of the window as Peter looked around frantically. Seeing no better option, Peter followed Tom out the window, flailing over himself.

Furious, Peter turned on Tom, who was laying on the ground, confused and frustrated. “Do you realize what you’ve done?!” he whisper-shouted, shaking him by the shoulders. Peter was struck by a sudden surge of anger at the boy. Why did _he_ get to live through a Chosen One attack while his father didn’t? Peter forced back angry tears.

Tom, with his sudden clarity, threw a wild fist at Peter before breaking into wild sobbing.

“Peter? George?” Artificial light flooded through the window. Peter, frantic, grabbed Tom in indecision and ran. Tom’s crying echoed in the street, a ghastly wail that rattled empty in his throat.

\---

The two had stopped a short distance away from Mrs. Brown’s house. Tom was dumped unceremoniously on the sidewalk.

“You can’t even walk,” Peter breathed, staring at Tom in disgust. “You’re _useless_!”

Tom flailed, hitting Peter in the shin. His sobs had quieted enough for him to glare at Peter. Until this point, Tom had not seen Peter as anything more than a disturbance. Now, in reflection, Tom regarded Peter with a certain disgust.

Peter had magic, but he was simply too weak, too stupid to use it _properly._ It was clear to Tom Peter lived a miserable life. He had all the power in the world at his fingertips - at least, enough to lord over the many common folk that must be everywhere - but he lacked the will to reach out and take it.

Yet he was still above Tom. Him, those figures in cloaks, and that woman who’d healed him. Tom was not simply at the level of the masses - he was _below_ people. And he had never been special in the first place.

Tom, struck with nausea, turned and retched on the sidewalk. He coughed wildly, gasping. Something was wrong with him - his organs functioned with sickly reluctance, and a wild sense of longing had taken over him. Half of him was across the world, or miles away, anywhere.

“I don’t even know what’s wrong with you!” Peter screamed, shaking Tom off him. “I don’t want anything to do with you! I’ll leave you here - and you-you’ll die! Good riddance!”

Peter stomped away and Tom rolled over, closing his eyes. He would die here, then. It would be a blessing. Tom swallowed down a lump in his throat and tried to calm the pounding of his heart.

Tom had built his entire life on his magic. He raised himself on the premise that he was extraordinary, unique and different.

Tom had lost his uniqueness, and had no more reason to live. His personality, his cruelty, plans, and destiny were made trivial.

No. _No_ , that wasn't possible. Tom Riddle was special, fit to be called a _God_ , wasn't he? His magic - it was still _his_ , he just needed to get it back.

Of course he could. He would get his magic back, and everything would be right with the world. He could live again, be a person. He would not have to grovel to the likes of Peter Pettigrew.

He would be able to find the people who took his magic and make them pay.

It was clear as day, suddenly. Tom Riddle had a destiny. Tom Riddle had magic. That was just how the world worked. Tom Riddle had to get his magic back at all costs. Tom was euphoric with his renewed purpose.

At some time, Peter had returned, as a result of misplaced altruism, guilt, and grudging responsibility. Tom didn’t notice. He was far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Pettigrew's here for some reason. I decided to make him a sidekick because I feel like he's mostly ignored by the fandom but I think he can be an interesting character. He was a lot younger than Tom in the og books which makes ages screwy in this AU but oh well?  
> Also for the 32 of you that might care I edited the first chapter.  
> Also does anyone have suggestions for the name of the Chosen One's posse? I have none.

**Author's Note:**

> I think the concept of someone losing their magic, especially someone like Riddle, who values their magic highly and has a narcissistic streak a mile wide, is fun. Originally I was thinking of something more symbolic and less permanent, but this is more fun! Right? Right.  
> Additionally I feel like Voldemort was a pretty bad villain and character in the original series, and some of the themes in the og story were poorly developed. I think trying to give Riddle character development and making him a protagonist would be a nice concept. I won't really be focusing on Harry because I think him as a dark lord is already the premise of many good fics.  
> I pretty much have no plan for this story because if I tried to develop one I'd never get any writing done so, please still stick around I guess? Fair warning, this story will probably never be finished.  
> Please take the time to comment/kudos as I will greatly appreciate them! Any suggestions for the plot or constructive criticism are also welcome.


End file.
